Jane Davey’s Locket by Eve Langlais Page 0,1

up on having Grandma empty the front lawn of its ornaments. I didn’t think a gnome statue existed that we didn’t own—and that included the vulgar ones.

Grandma was in the kitchen at the stove, her tiny, round figure swathed in a frilly apron over a pastel pink tracksuit. Her white hair was a mess of wild curls, and she hummed as she stirred a large cauldron, the smell wafting from it divine—which meant nothing. It could be a hardwood floor cleaner for all I knew. Smart people never tasted from the cooking pot of a witch.

“Why did you borrow my locket?” I asked, peeking over the edge.

“I needed it for a spell.”

“What?” I tried not to yell at my grandma. She was old. You weren’t supposed to yell at old people because they were wise. Which, in Grandma’s case, I had my doubts about.

“And they say I’m hard of hearing.” Grandma cackled, something she did quite well, given that she was a few centuries old. “I needed it so I could use it as the focal point of a spell. I am delighted to say it worked. Which is why you can’t find it.”

I sighed, a better move than grabbing hold of the old lady and shaking her. It wasn’t her fault she’d finally gone senile. She’d lived a long time. Still spoke of the Salem Witch Trials as “those upstart girls getting what they deserved.”

“Grandma, you know that locket is the only thing I have left of Mom and Dad.” They’d been taken from me a few years ago. A tragic accident. Although I didn’t know how someone intentionally sinking my dad’s ship could be an accident. After all, someone had hit the button that fired the missile. Then again, it was bound to happen eventually. My dad, an old-school pirate, quite enjoyed taking his ship out and reliving the good old days, flying the jolly roger, firing off a few cannons, boarding ships, and demanding treasure. Then doing unmentionable things to his wench—also known as my mother.

If I ignored the scarring from my parents’ lusty habits, then I could admit that I missed sailing with Dad. Missed him dragging me out of school for months on end so I could enjoy a proper education at sea—and in the various ports. I knew swear words that would make a sailor blush. My knot-tying skills were without compare. And I could navigate by the stars.

Useful if I ever sailed. Which I didn’t anymore. Last time I had been on a ship was a few years ago, visiting my undead parents. Since they had drowned, they now permanently lived at the bottom of the sea. With my job, it had been a while since I’d visited them. But we did talk on the phone. We’d tried a video call only once via a mini-sub equipped with a camera. I’d required months of therapy after. I still couldn’t look at a starfish without flashbacks.

“Don’t be cross, Jane. You’ll get wrinkles.”

“I’m trying to figure out why you took my locket.”

“Because of what it symbolizes, of course.” Grandma clasped her hands. “With its built-in propensity, it made the magic that much easier to set.”

A fearful tightening in my stomach had me saying, “What kind of spell did you cast?” The last time Grandma had done a helpful thing for me—whipping up a batch of brownies for the bake sale at school—I’d ended up being called Mary Jane for my entire junior year. Grandma told the principal and the police that she’d had no idea the mint in the garden was actually marijuana.

False, of course. Grandma loved a doobie with her after-dinner coffee. Just like the school didn’t argue with the profit we made from the sale of said treats. All of which disappeared, leading to no evidence and, therefore, no charges.

The nickname had stuck for the rest of my high school career, to my vast annoyance. When I finally hit puberty—late, as most witches do—and came into my own powers? The acne that plagued my taunters just before prom was justified revenge.

“Oh, don’t make a big stink about it, Janey. It’s just a little love spell.”

I ogled her, speechless for a moment. A rarity I can assure you. “Just a love spell? For who?”

“Who do you think?” Grandma grinned at me with all the chubby-cheeked, jovial evil she was capable of.

“Me!” I squeaked. “Why on Hell and Earth would you do that?”

“You’re getting old, Jane.”

“I just turned thirty. That’s hardly ancient.” Especially for a